Simple Pages
by Naisumi
Summary: The first Readme.txt sidefic! This is WeaselForge and um...it's about WeaselForge. Yes. I had some qualms about posting it, since not everyone knows who Weasel is, but eh. This thingymagogger is dedicated to Olhado, who rules. Turnips, dude.
1. Spectrum no less

**Title**: Simple Pages 

**Part**: 1/? 

**Author**: Naisumi 

**Rating**: PG-13 

**Archiving**: Please ask. 

**Pairings**: Weasel/Forge, Forge/Weasel 

**Disclaimer**: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn. 

**Spoilers**: Uh. ... ... yeah, no. 

**Warnings**: Dude, there's, like, slash! Male/male relationships! Dude! Also, this is, like, totally AU. Yup. 

  


  


  


  


**Notes**: To those of you who give a damn, this fic is Forge/Weasel. Who is Weasel? No, he is not an OC. He is a geeky supergenius from the comics. He was seen being played brilliantly by the amazing and ubershibby Shindo (for those you who remember her) in the _Life in the Other Lane_ RPG. The first and original one, that is. 

Anyway. This is one of the sidestories I promised for _Readme.txt_. It's set before Antisthenes becomes a huge top-notch success. It is, in fact, a whole two years before _Readme.txt_, which means that Lance is just kind of skulking around and Johnny and Jubilee are bored as hell. It also means that Forge is twenty-three and Weasel is seventeen. So Weasel isn't "barely legal," he um _isn't_. 

More useless background information that you really don't need to know is that Forge has been with Antisthenes for five years at this point. And they're still going nowhere. Um, yeah, what's up with that? Anyway. This is when Weasel first joins Antisthenes. It's fun. I swear. There's more angst than in _Readme.txt_ (though there _is_ a randomly spoofy t.v. conversation later on. I didn't expect that. Weasel and Forge are wonky when they're together.) and...I am totally rambling because I haven't slept at all last night. Um, yes. 

  


  


  


  


**Additional Notes**: KaZAAM! This fic is for **Olhado**, who rocks so much! There is also a sub-dedication somewhere in here. Ah, yes: This is also dedicated to **Lyo** and **Shindo**, because without them, there would be no Weasel/Forge. They both rule. Bow to them. Yeah, dude, that means you. 

  


  


**Additionaler Notes**: Wade Armstrong is also a comic character, in case you're wondering. He rules. You'll like him. He shows up later, though. Just prepping you. Go eat yogurt. It's good for you. Not that fluffy kind, though. That stuff's weird. 

  


Enjoy and Review!!!...please? 

  
  


  


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Jack "Weasel" Hammer saw the ad in the Sunday newspaper. It said in bold, 

  


**Wanted: Mechanic and/or tech guy. Must bring own sense of humor and keen eye for the absurd.**

  


Directly under were a phone number, an address, and a hastily scribble medieval scene featuring stick figures. 

Owning both a sense of humor and a second-hand spyglass into the realm of uncanny and weird, Weasel decided to take a look. That, he reminded himself, was the reason he was standing outside an old warehouse that he'd always thought was abandoned. 

The warehouse was tucked back and between two other warehouses, both large and looming, and was draped with chains that were rusted and clung to the briny cement like seaweed. It was on the edge of a gray-green lake and a rotted, knotholed wharf that was sprinkled with beer cans, cigarette butts, and dark liver spots of decay. A decade or two earlier might have found this particular district to be prospering and whitewashed with wealth; now it was simply a specter of its past with graveyard teeth, gaping hollow doorway eyes, and a crumbling turf toupee. 

Weasel scuffed the toe of his square-toed boots on the cement. He'd had the boots for two years now, and they were well-worn: thick, ash-gray soles, a dull black with the occasional sienna-dark glow of ballpoint pen scribbles, faded orange plastic triangle patches on the sides that sported 'biohazard' symbols that he'd glued on there himself. He hadn't thought this would be too formal a meeting--after all, he was aiming for a job with a rock band--and so he'd just worn a black pair of chinos and a bright green t-shirt with a white, paint-splattered button-down over it. The button-down was open and the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows so that his pale forearms were subject to the chill of the brisk autumn air. 

He checked the back of one hand. He'd haphazardly scrawled the address there in electric blue sharpie and now had to squint to make out the numbers and letters. He looked the warehouse up and down, wrinkled his nose to nudge square, black-rimmed glasses upwards, and looked again. The mess of black jelly bracelets, studded bands and paperclip bangles that circled his wrists bunched up as he tucked both hands into his pockets. 

This was the place alright. 

One of the doors was propped open with a cinderblock, strains of music wafting out to mingle with the distinctly fishy fragrance that permeated the area. Weasel hesitated briefly before walking over to the door and peeking through the crack. 

There, amid the clutter of dust and boxes and mangled gaggle of month-old newspapers was a boy with fiery orange hair. He was dancing with a broomstick and yelling along with the frenetic screams from the CD spinning in the battered, navy-blue Sony stereo nestled between a drum kit and a jumble of cables. Clad in red gasoline pants with gray piping and a black t-shirt teeming with sprawls of whiteout doodles all over the front and back, the boy shimmied over to the nude torso of a mannequin and began to airguitar back to back with it. Weasel grinned at the sight and waited for the song to end, wondering if he should applaud once it did. Keen eye for the absurd, indeed. 

The last chords faded and Weasel rapped on the door. The sound of it echoed in the warehouse and sounded like a lethargic roll of thunder. The boy twisted around, peered over in his direction, and grinned. 

"He-y," the boy said. "What can I do ya for?" 

"Um hi," Weasel said. He squeaked by the cinderblock and stood by the door a little awkwardly, his hands still crammed in his pockets and his shoulders hunched up from the cold. "I called earlier and--" 

"Oh, _Weasel_, right?" The boy lovingly leaned the broom against the mannequin and jogged over. "_Excellente_, man!" 

He shook Weasel's hand vigorously, then slung an arm around Weasel's shoulders. 

"I'm Johnny," said the boy with an enormous grin. Johnny made a grand, sweeping gesture with his free arm and announced, "And this is our empire." 

"Impressive," Weasel said, smiling. 

Johnny snapped his fingers and jabbed rather jovially at Weasel's arm. "Sarcasm not needed, my friend. Now, come deeper into our den." 

His arm still draped around Weasel's shoulders, Johnny expertly steered him past piles of driftwood embedded with dark, wicked-looking nails and burial mounds of tattered magazines, some of which were missing an odd corner or letter or word while others were bereft of their glossy covers or entire continents of celebrity faces and limbs. There were heaps of soggy-looking cardboard boxes that were swathed in duct tape, and there were nests of thick, black wires that were wrapped in insulation tape and tossed rather indiscriminately into a farrago of impending electrical disaster. 

Through the maze of junk and trash and general disarray, Weasel counted three pairs of goggles (one of which was shattered and looked quite beyond repair), an _Aliens_ poster, a lone fly-fishing boot, a pyramid of milk crates overflowing with sleek-covered comic books, a Mickey Mouse beach towel, three or four water-stained mattresses stacked all on top of each other, a few empty jars with pale green fluid gelling at the bottoms, a broken tennis racket, a tight clump of irregularly shaped lumps all covered with a thick white sheet, and the saddest, floppiest armchair he'd ever seen. 

They turned the corner of the main warehouse area and entered a narrow hallway of sorts. The wall was steep and gray and bumpy like unstirred porridge. Weasel glanced up and saw a set of metal stairs leading up to a catwalk that oversaw the vicinity. It looked patently unsafe. Past the catwalk stairs, the hallway opened up to a smaller room. In the room was a wall splashed with swatches of vivid, different colored paints. 

The floor was spread with newspapers, a whole sea of pixilated, grubby black-and-white text and photos. Near the left wall was an army of squat opened paint cans, all lined up and neatly matched with paintbrushes that rested on the newspaper before each can. A pyre of Dutch Boy stirrers lay out to the side along with some thick, colorful gloves and an empty tin can that held an assortment of brushes of varying size, shape and thickness. A paint tray complete with roller sat despondently by itself near the opposite wall. 

In front of the wall of color stood a short Asian girl with a black sports bra and a flimsy lavender men's shirt on. The collar was turned out and the hem of the shirt reached just an inch or two above her knees. She sported a dark purple beret, which was nestled snugly at a jaunty angle on her pixie-cut flyaway black hair. Presently, she tucked one hand in the back pocket of her torn and faded jeans. She was barefoot. 

"Jubes," Johnny called, still leaning heavily on Weasel. 

The girl turned around and pushed pale-blue sunglasses from their perch on the bridge of her nose to rest on the crown of her forehead. She squinted then grinned broadly. 

"Johnny-O!" The girl spied Weasel and grinned even wider. "Who's this?" 

"Weasel, our latest mechanic-slash-The-Guy-Who-Knows-What-Buttons-To-Push," Johnny said with a rather extravagant bow. 

"I don't think I've been hired yet," Weasel said. "But nice to meet you." 

The girl laughed. "You, too, cutie. I'm Jubilee." She wiped her hands on the already smudged shirt and shrugged carelessly. "I'd shake your hand, but..." 

Weasel grinned. "Consider it shaken." 

"Now, is it shook or shaked or shaken?" Johnny wondered aloud. 

"I think it's shaken," Weasel said. "Or maybe shook." 

"Shakened?" Jubilee tried, her hands on her hips. 

"I had a kitten once, and it was shakened when my dad almost ran over it," Weasel said helpfully. 

Jubilee let out a snort and giggled. 

"I like him," she said to Johnny. "Can we keep him?" 

"Depends," Johnny said. "We'll have to see what Lance says." 

"Lance?" said Weasel. 

"Alvers," Jubilee said. "He's the lead. And he's cranky," she added as an afterthought. 

"Ah," Weasel said. "Well, uh--would you like me to patch anything up? I'm good with computers, too, if, you know, you need anything done with stuff like that." 

"Well, I'll tell you what," Johnny said. "Y'know where the catwalk is?" 

Weasel idly played with one of his paperclip bracelets. "Yeah, I saw it earlier." 

"Go up it, and you should see a room to your left," Johnny said. "Check it out; we've got a ton of cables and shit like that. One of our other mechanics is in there cataloguing or whatever." 

"I'll go help out," Weasel said, grinning a little perplexedly. 

"Okay, hon," Jubilee said, waving a little and accidentally flicking some paint onto Johnny's cheek. 

Johnny yelped. Weasel laughed and turned, walking back the way they'd come. 

"What the hell? What color _is_ this even?" he heard Johnny ask with mock indignation. 

"Saltwater taffy," replied Jubilee, laughing. 

"Saltwater _what_?" said Johnny. "Think I had some of that at an amusement park once or something..." 

Weasel climbed the steep metal stairs, listening to it rattle and clank with some measure of uneasiness. Once he was at the top, he paused, hands curled tightly around the railing. The catwalk squeaked a little and wobbled like tinfoil, but otherwise seemed relatively intact. 

The catwalk was made of a dimpled, blue-gray sheet of metal that looked much thinner than it actually was. The huge gaps every eight feet or so did nothing to reassure, and briefly, Weasel wondered if there was any kind of worker's comp for being a rock band's mechanic. He glanced over and out at the tangle of scraps and odds and ends below and grinned when he saw the peak of a stack of traffic cones shyly peer out from under a snarl of fishnet and broken papier-mâché piñatas. He wondered how cool it'd be to take a disposable camera and take photographs at weird angles of all the junk that was down in the warehouse and resolved to ask Lance or Jubilee or whoever if he could do so should he get hired. 

About middle the way out on the catwalk was a doorway, just as Johnny had promised. The door was closed and Weasel could hear, faintly, the thrum of a bass and the sound of something soothing and mellow. He knocked on the door and glanced around, curiously looking at the dust-streaked windows of the warehouse front. Beyond it was the fleece-gray autumn sky smudged with the occasional pale of passing clouds. A few jagged rooftops were visible in the distant along with the smoky kohl-dark horizon that was, he knew, scattered with newer suburban developments filled with electrical streetlamps the color of cheddar and crushed gravel driveways and neighborhoods with no sidewalks. Those same neighborhoods, however, always had lush green lawns in the summer, and pale tender in the spring, neatly combed in the fall. They were the ones with the perfect, uninterrupted blanket of snow cuddling up to their houses in the winter--almost as if in compensation for the crushed gravel and the lack of sidewalks. 

Weasel's attention was drawn back to the iron door as he heard the music's volume get cranked down. The door swung open. Weasel could hear the music much clearer now, though it was softer, and he recognized it to be the Turtles. It must've been an oldies station; WONE 105.7, probably. 

"Hello," said the man who had opened the door. His tanned face was friendly and he looked a little puzzled, but mostly affably inquisitive. He was wearing a gray t-shirt with rings of black around the collar and the hems of the sleeves and faded jeans with the knees ripped, the occasional white string drifting from the jagged holes in tendrils. A thin silver chain tumbled across his collarbone, a plain necklace with no pendants or lockets or charms. He had a black wristband on one wrist and his fingers were long, tapered, the knuckles jutting out almost sharply. He had sleep-mussed black hair, the uneven fall of it wandering into his left eye but steering clear of his right, and it trailed off at the nape of his neck. He jerked his head a little, swinging his bangs out of his eyes. 

"Can I help you?" he asked. 

He had very dark eyes and he was very beautiful. 

"Um," Weasel said. 

The man blinked and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and leaned an elbow against the doorjamb, in turn resting his temple against his forearm. 

"Um," Weasel said again. 

"'Um'?" asked the man, who seemed even more confused now. 

"I'm Weasel," Weasel said. He felt the tips of his ears burn and he shook his head a little, running a hand through the thick unruly mess of dark that was his hair. 

"Oh!" the man smiled and held out his hand. In a daze, Weasel shook it and adjusted his glasses as the man said, "My name's Forge. Welcome aboard." 

"I haven't been hired yet," Weasel said. 

Forge grinned. "Yes, well, I doubt they'll find anyone else to work as a mechanic in this town." 

"They'll find lots of accountants," Weasel said before he could help himself. "Seventy-thousand dollars minus tax equals just enough money to bypass fun." 

Forge laughed. It was a very open, friendly sort of laugh, and his shoulders shook a little when he did so. Weasel felt his ears warm just a little more as something started winding up tight in the pit of his stomach. 

"Well, come on in," Forge said, opening the door more and standing aside. 

"Oh," Weasel said, "right." 

He walked in and immediately noticed how cramped the room was. It seemed to be very much so a one-person room, and there was currently not even enough space for that: there was an avalanche of manila envelopes scattered all over the three filing cabinets that lined the left side of the room, and the right side was a swarm of black boxes and jumper cables and other miscellany technical equipment, some seeming to date back to the Middle Ages. 

"Yeah, uh." Forge laughed a little, looking slightly embarrassed. "Sorry about the mess. We just moved in, what, last week? I was just getting ready to...well." 

"Catalogue," Weasel said vaguely, eyes already drawn to the electrical devices strewn across the great divide between the paper and the mechanical. He stooped to pick up an extension cable and inspected the crooked outlets. "I know." 

He noticed Forge watching him and he smiled a little weakly. 

"Looks like this is your first job, hey?" Forge said. Friendly. 

"I guess so," Weasel said. Nervous. 

He put down the extension cable on top of the debris burying what seemed to look like or, at the very least, resemble a desk and took a deep breath. He grinned rather bravely. 

"Where do we start?" 

  


  


  


  


Four hours later found the small room in the middle of the catwalk pulsating with old '70s songs. Weasel was lounging on a haphazard heap of manila envelopes and Forge was guarding the door with his back and an armful of clipboards and prepackaged fortune cookies. They were both snickering. 

"Okay, okay," Weasel said. "Where's the kitchenette going to go?" 

"Next to the breakfast nook," Forge said. He clumsily tossed a fortune cookie at Weasel. A few clipboards clattered to the floor with the action and he pursed his lips at them in consternation. 

Weasel caught the fortune cookie, pinched apart the plastic packaging, and cracked the cookie in half. 

"'Look in all directions at all times,'" Weasel read, then added, "in bed." 

Forge chuckled. "Here, open one for me." 

There was a loud clattering sound as more clipboards fell. Weasel popped both of his fortune cookie halves into his mouth and caught the second cookie. 

"Hmmm," he said as he cracked it open. "Yours is 'Watch your step.'" 

"In bed?" Forge tilted his head. "That doesn't make much sense." 

"Not much of a fortune, either." Weasel handed the cookie fragments and slip of paper to Forge. 

"I wonder what kind of bed I'd need to have to watch my step," Forge mused, absently shifting the clipboards more snugly in the crook of his arm. 

"A waterbed?" Weasel suggested. 

Forge laughed and nodded. "Point. I think a waterbed might be a bit treacherous." 

"I don't like waterbeds," Weasel said seriously. "They scare me. I always think they're going swallow me up." 

"Like an alien symbiote or something," Forge agreed and Weasel laughed aloud. 

"Yeah, _exactly_," Weasel said, grinning widely. "And then I'd be stuck inside the stomach of some creepy invader-thing." 

"With that weird water-emulating goo dripping down on you," Forge said, chuckling. 

Weasel nodded vigorously. "It's got to be some kind of digestive enzyme." 

Forge laughed, then looked around. "So, if we get a plasma t.v. do you think it'll go in the living room or the breakfast nook?" 

"Who wants to go to the living room if there's a _breakfast_ nook?" Weasel grinned. 

"We can put the living room over there," Forge gestured with his chin at a sorry, little claustrophobic corner of the cramped room, "and stick the rec room over here." 

Weasel sighed and leaned back on the obscenely enormous pile of envelopes, his hands propped up behind his head. "Such a spacious office." 

"Elbow room galore." Forge nodded sagely. 

Weasel eyed the ceiling, then felt himself slide sideways as the envelopes began a slow, snow-slope avalanche toward the middle of the office. 

"Oof," he said as he landed somewhere near Forge's knee. 

Forge laughed. "We should clean that up now." 

"Coffee break's over, then?" Weasel asked. He stood up and dusted off his pants. They were spackled with dust and drying plaster in places. "Oh, this is going to be a pain to wash." 

"Sorry," Forge said with an apologetic smile. "Part of the job description." 

"It's going to be difficult to stay a fashionable hipster," Weasel joked. 

Forge arched an eyebrow. "How deck?" (1) 

Weasel snickered and reached down. "Here, let me help with some of those clipboards." 

He took a step back so Forge could stand up and, now hugging roughly two-dozen clipboards to his chest, peered around. They'd cleaned off the desk and filed most of the papers and folders into the cabinets. The tangle of electrical devices and tools had been catalogued and stored away into a narrow closet in the corner of the room that had been previously unnoticed because of the mountains of soggy cardboard boxes that been propped up against and in front of it. The only thing left to do now was to tabulate the number of envelopes and clipboards there were and they'd be done with inventory. 

Forge stood up, rubbed his forehead with the back of one hand, and put down the fortune cookies he had been holding. He shuffled the clipboards in his hand, then grinned when he finally came on one with a thin sheaf of papers on it. "Alright. I guess we can go back after we file away all those envelopes and these things, and make sure we've got everything." 

"Sounds like a plan," Weasel said. "I've got--mm--twenty-seven clipboards here." 

Forge silently counted as he rifled through the clipboards in his arms. "Thirty-two for me." 

"My mad math skillz tell me that that's fifty-nine altogether," Weasel said helpfully. 

Forge chuckled and pulled a bic pen out of his jeans pocket. He scribbled a quick 'clipboards -- 59' on the paper, and said, 

"Alright, let's pack these things into the filing cabinet and count through the envelopes." 

"This is really excellent, you know," Weasel commented. "Very exciting and mechanical." 

"They're putting our skills to good use," Forge agreed. 

They finished the rest of the cataloguing in a matter of minutes and swept up; it'd taken them just under half an hour, and they now sat on the floor, backs to the door, spraying aerosol potpourri at the filing cabinets. 

"It smells like something died in there," Weasel said, wrinkling his nose at the cabinets. 

"Now it smells like 'country garden,'" Forge said. 

There was a loud knock on the door, and they stood up--Weasel with some difficulty, since his left foot had fallen asleep--as Forge turned down the volume on the radio. He opened the door. 

"Hello?--Oh, Lance. How're you?" 

"Rare with a splash of A1 on the side," said a lethargically lazy voice. 

A young man wandered into the room, hands in pockets. His jeans were torn at the knees and in small frayed patches elsewhere, and he was wearing a black t-shirt with neon-green, crumbling letters that said, 'subgenius' on the front. He had scraggly dark brown longish hair and a small silver stud earring, and he was wearing a pair of reflective black sunglasses that still had their bright-red price tag on the side. A half-ash cigarette drooped from the corner of his lips, and he took a drag, then exhaled the smoke around the cigarette. 

"Wow. Whatta shithole," he said. 

"Yeah, you hooked us up with a winner, Lance," Forge said, smiling. 

"Shut it, wiseass," Lance said idly. He glanced around, sauntered over to the desk, and hopped up to sit on it. "I'd hate to've seen this fuckin' dump before you got to it." 

"Um," Weasel said. 

Lance quirked an eyebrow and took out his cigarette with one hand, removing his shades with the other. 

"Weasel-Weasel, I presume," he said, breathing a lovely noxious cloud of nicotine and carcinogens up into the air. 

"That'd be my twin, Weasel v. 2.0," Weasel joked. "They just call me Weasel." 

"Cute," Lance said. "So, did Johnny tell you to do anything?" 

"I helped catalogue some of this junk," Weasel said. He gestured toward the filing cabinet and the closet and the pitiful little pile of dust and litter that sat in a corner, waiting for a trash bin. 

"Huh," said Lance. "That's nice." 

Weasel blinked owlishly. Lance tapped his cigarette on the side of the desk a few times and ember-dust drifted to the floor. 

"Let's see." Lance leaned back on both hands and eyed the single light bulb that clung tenuously to the ceiling, lonely and blindingly bright. "How much mechanical experience do you have?" 

"Well," said Weasel. 

"What about computer crap? Know lots of that shit?" 

"I," said Weasel. 

"Do you own tools?" 

"Yes," said Weasel. 

"Hired," Lance announced and hopped down from the desk. He put the cigarette back to his lips and hooked the sunglasses so that they dangled from one ear. 

"Check you later," he said, nodding at Forge and grinning crookedly at Weasel. "Be here tomorrow, nine o'clock sharp." 

"Aye, cap'n," Weasel said, more than a little baffled. 

"See you later," Forge said and closed the door behind Lance. He grinned at Weasel. 

"Hmm," Weasel said. "That confused me." 

Forge laughed. "Here, I'll show you the forms you have to fill out." 

"Okay," Weasel said, and they grinned at each other. 

  


  


  


  


The vesper gloom of seven o'clock settled comfortably over the warehouse, a dark crushed blue seeping in through the windows and hanging from the deepening shadows on the walls like aimless ghosts. Once it hit six-thirty, a few, meager fluorescent lights had snapped on, wavering and blinking on the tall ceiling like bright, bar-shaped seizures captured in tubes. Johnny and Jubilee had disappeared and the all the doors were padlocked tight except for the front door; a cinderblock still stood vigil, thin, autumn chill keeping it company. There was a smear of orange on the floor from the bottom of the catwalk to the front door that looked like the footprints of a slowly dying pumpkin. 

"Jubilee," Forge said to his companion. 

Weasel nodded sagely. "I figured. Is she painting a mural or something?" 

"Yeah," Forge said. "The plan's to set up a stage over there--" here, he gestured toward a lonely wall opposite the front door that had bits of gum tacked to it and graffiti that read 'Big C Wus Here' snaking across it diagonally. "--and to have a sort of makeshift green room or whatever over in the other room." 

"Spiff," Weasel said, grinning. "So that's why you guys need mechanics, yeah? Because you need to get lights and stage stuff up?" 

Forge nodded. "It's going to be a long haul. Lance's idea; he said that if the local venues don't have time to hear us play, we'll _make_ our own venue." 

Weasel laughed. "I bet he wasn't half as polite." 

"That's true," Forge chuckled. 

They picked their way through the debris, stepped over the cinderblock and outside, and stood, watching the ripple of the lake. The sun was burnt into the sky, leaving its sooty purple shadow on the clouds as it slowly and droopily sank. There was the sound of yelling on the other side of the pier, but it was indistinguishable and echoed off the cement and deadweight wood that the wharf was carved out of. The twilight made the ground seem like asphalt; dark and sparkling and grainy like chalk or herbal vitamins that tasted like the insides of rotting tree trunks. 

"I'd better head off," Weasel said, watching as Forge carefully nudged the cinderblock inside and swung the door closed, locking it. He used a long, metal key that was one of many that hung from an antiquated-looking ring. 

Forge tucked the keys back into his jeans pocket and frowned a little. "Do you need a ride?" 

It was significantly chillier out than before; he could see dim plumbs of pale escaping both their mouths as they breathed and talked. 

"No, I'm fine," Weasel said, shaking his head. "I only live a little way's from here." 

"Oh, okay," Forge said. He turned and held out his hand, smiling. "It was nice meeting you." 

"You, too," Weasel said with an enormous grin. He shook Forge's hand and saluted before cramming both hands into his pockets and shuddering a little. 

"Jeez, but it's getting cold," he commented before giving one last parting grin. 

As he walked away, Forge took a moment to look him over: tousled black hair that spiked up in all directions, thin shoulders pulling against the flimsy material of his shirt by hunching, a slightly loping walk that somehow seemed to be self-conscious yet confident and unassuming all at the same time. He knew that, should Weasel turn around, he'd see dark hazel eyes framed by black-rimmed glasses that tinted otherwise pale skin a shade darker with nonreflective lenses. He also knew that Weasel had very thin and very slender hands that had slightly calloused fingers that were very deft, that were very clever-looking. 

Forge coughed a little and looked away from the fading figure in the distance. He had a thin dark jacket on that was a felt-polyester blend. There was a crumple of paper as he thrust his hands into said jacket's pockets, and he frowned a little and pulled out a sheet of paper that had Weasel's messy, angular handwriting on it. He grinned, feeling a sort of looseness in his chest that was very fluttery. 

Squinting, Forge scanned the sheet in the fading light, then paused, the frown from before reappearing. He brought the paper an inch from his nose and stared hard at it. 

No, he'd read it right the first time. 

"Weasel!" 

Weasel turned and tilted his head, his brow furrowed in bemusement as he saw Forge running after him. "Forge?" 

Forge bent a little, catching his breath, then straightened. He waved the paper. 

"You made a mistake on your application," he said earnestly. 

"A mistake?" Weasel asked, looking even more confused. 

"Yeah," Forge said. He laughed, and his laugh was a little high and a little more hysterical than before. "You, uh, said that you were, er, seventeen." 

"Oh," Weasel said and laughed. 

Forge grinned widely. "So--" 

"That's no mistake," Weasel said with a sort of amused smile. 

Forge stared. "No--what?" 

"Didn't Johnny tell you?" Weasel chewed on his lower lip. "I know it's a little unconventional but--" 

"It's okay," Forge said quickly. "It's fine, I just--um," he smiled weakly. "It caught me by surprise." 

Weasel scuffed his shoe on the ground and looked slightly sheepish. "Sorry about that. Anyway, I'll see you tomorrow, hey?" 

"Right," Forge said feebly. "Tomorrow." 

Weasel grinned brightly and waved. Forge watched him walk through the scraggly trees at the border of the warehouse district and fade into the darkness. Once Weasel was out of sight, Forge sagged against the brittle wooden railing that bordered the pier and sighed a little too shakily for his comfort. 

"_Seventeen_," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. 

Collecting his wits, he stood straight and ran a hand through his hair. Carefully, he folded the damning paper and tucked it in his jacket pocket. Then he firmly ignored the little niggling voice in the back of his head that gleefully reminded him over and over again of what exactly he'd thought of when he looked at Weasel's very thin, very slender hands. 

"Baby steps," he reminded himself. He'd concentrate on getting home tonight, going to sleep--_without_ thinking about Weasel, thank you very much, because only insane people are that obsessed with someone they've only just met--and getting to work in one piece. And hopefully work would be better the next day. 

Of course, nine o'clock a.m. day proved that these were very unrealistic hopes. 

It was a Tuesday and Forge had dressed accordingly for the cold that had traversed from night to morning: dark gray long-sleeved shirt with a white Monkees logo on the back, faded black jeans, and thick black fingerless gloves. When he reached the warehouse, he saw that the band (otherwise known as the Odd Couple and co.) had a blatant disregard for the chill autumn weather; Jubilee was sporting a bright yellow tanktop, pajama bottoms, and thick, rain boots (which, no doubt, matched the yellow slicker that was hanging from an armless mannequin in the corner); Johnny had a flimsy peacock blue t-shirt on, jean cut-offs and high-top sneakers, green; and Lance, the ever imaginative, was wearing his usual: black t-shirt, ripped jeans. 

"Didn't you see the weather forecast?" Forge asked, smiling, when he saw them. 

Lance succinctly flipped him the bird, and Jubilee stuck her tongue out at him before giggling. 

"We're with Rogue in spirit," Johnny said with a rather worrisome grin, "and so, naturally, we have to show it." 

"Who's Rogue?" came a voice from high in the catwalk. 

Forge tried not to look, but he couldn't help himself: He leaned back and felt himself go a little weak in the knees when he saw Weasel, who had both arms crossed atop the feeble railing of the catwalk and was leaning his chin on them. Weasel waved. 

"Good morning," Forge called. He felt inordinately satisfied with himself for the steadiness in his voice. 

"Hi," Weasel said cheerfully. 

Weasel clambered across and down the catwalk, grinning. 

"We actually have work to do today," he informed Forge, bouncing on his toes in excitement. 

"Really," Forge said, slightly distracted; Weasel was wearing a plain black hoodie, the same square-toed black boots from yesterday, and khaki cargo bondage pants (obviously lovingly worn, from the shabby patches here and there) that was scattered with safety pins and the occasional sewn-on epigraph like, 'I am Jack's...', which took up the hem of his left leg. 

"Yeah," Weasel said, practically brimming with enthusiasm. "So, who's Rogue?" 

"Our drummer," Johnny said. "She's a real sunbeam." 

"Doesn't talk," said Lance, who seemed to be engrossed in the latest edition of Maxim. "You'd like her a fuckin' lot, believe you me." 

Weasel laughed. "So where is she?" 

"Louisiana," Jubilee said. She was kicking a deflated basketball as though it were a hackysack. "Visiting family. She's been writing some letters and stuff, y'know, but I dread the day we get one written all in the blood of her relatives." 

"Exaggeration?" Weasel asked, grinning at Forge. 

"No," Forge said, dragging himself out of deep contemplation about how narrow Weasel's wrists were and how deceptively delicate. He smiled weakly. 

"You wanna give Forge HQ's latest orders?" Lance tilted his head and the magazine and seemed to pontificate on what was no doubt a very physically impossible position that some unfortunate model was in. 

"Sure," Weasel said with a skip and a hop. "C'mon." 

Forge followed Weasel up the catwalk--not, mind you, paying the least attention to how slouchy Weasel's pants were--and into the room, which miraculously smelled like Pine Sol. 

"I took the liberty of buying some cleaning products last night," Weasel said. "Since, you know, I'm pretty sure I never want to go to a country garden let alone stay somewhere that smells like one." 

Forge laughed, startled out of watching Weasel's fingers curl and uncurl, grasping tight the sleeve-ends of the too-baggy hoodie he was swimming in. 

"We could get something equally disgusting," he said. "Like seaside aria or whatever." 

Weasel made a face and shook his head. He handed a manila folder to Forge and leaned against one of the filing cabinets. Forge took the folder and opened it, skimming the contents--all without, remarkably enough, noticing that his fingers had brushed Weasel's and that Weasel's chin was remarkably sharp and his lips were thin but looked very soft. 

Thankfully, the contents of the folder engrossed him enough to forget that Weasel happened to be standing a few feet away, attempting to balance a paperclip on his nose. 

"They want us to figure out how to set up the stage today?" Forge frowned and rubbed the back of his neck. "That doesn't make any sense. Shouldn't we be cleaning everything up first?" 

"Lance's idea," Weasel said, and quipped: "'If we know where every-the-fuck-thing is going before we move every little piece-a shit, we can do the least fuckin' amount of work possible.'" 

Forge laughed. "Sounds like Lance alright." 

"The guy is an economic genius," Weasel said rather sincerely. 

"A professor of slack," Forge agreed. 

They spent the rest of the morning figuring out the rough schematics of where the wiring and equipment would have to go in order for small fires and electrical catastrophes not to happen. About an hour before noon, there was a rock 'n' roll-sounding ruckus from below, which continued nonstop for three hours before fading off to Jubilee screaming something about supersoakers. Then, around two, a very soggy-looking Johnny knocked on the door and yelled, "Hey, lovers, time for _lunch_!" 

Up until that point, Forge had happily forgotten that he might very possibly be smitten with jailbait. 

"Oh, right," Forge said and glanced back at Weasel, who was lying on the floor and singing along with the Weezer CD he'd brought and peering at the sketchy blueprint they'd cooked up. He felt a strange jittery feeling ripple from his toes to somewhere in his chest. 

Johnny grinned and pushed past him before actually _pouncing_ on Weasel. There was a very loud yelp, then the crinkling sound of the blueprint getting crushed between Johnny's very wet hair and Weasel's very squirmy stomach. 

"Get off-f-f," Weasel squeaked, laughing despite himself. 

Forge chuckled but felt a little nauseous. 

Johnny propped his chin up on one hand and yanked the blueprint out of Weasel's hands. 

"Hmmm," he said, very gravely, inspecting it. "Looks like the appendix's bust." 

"The appendix of a grimy and disillusioned society," Weasel said between little bursts of laughter. 

Johnny snickered and hopped to his feet and helped Weasel up with an unceremoniously hard tug. Forge took the blueprint from Johnny and fastidiously folded it and put it in the first drawer of the desk. He tried very hard to ignore how close Weasel and Johnny were standing; how Johnny was whispering something very loudly and sloppily into Weasel's ear; how Weasel was laughing, his thin, slender frame trembling with mirth. Forge tried very hard to not think about Weasel and trembling at all, but failed somewhat miserably. 

"Anyway," Johnny said, snickering to himself. He slung an arm around Weasel's shoulders and said grandiosely, "Off to the nearest KFC, good fellow!" 

"We're going to KFC?" Forge said. 

Weasel started laughing. "Oh, jeez. High-budget spending." 

He grinned at Forge, and it was a very secret sort of grin that left Forge feeling warm inside. 

"We're not corporate monsters, man," Johnny said, pretending to be hurt, then added, "Something smells _piney_ in here." 

_In more ways than one_, Forge thought. He tried very hard not to be obscenely cheered up just because Weasel smiled at him and failed miserably at that, too. 

"Let's go to lunch," he said resignedly. 

  


  


  


  
  


  


  


  


  


  


  


~tbc~ 

  


  


  


(1) According to the _Hipster's Handbook_, 'deck' is now the *ahem* trendy way to say 'cool.' *giggles* Dude. Hipsters. 


	2. a rainbow short of

**Title**: Simple Pages 

**Part**: 2/? 

**Author**: Naisumi 

**Rating**: PG-13 

**Archiving**: Please ask. 

**Pairings**: Weasel/Forge, Forge/Weasel 

**Disclaimer**: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn. Oh! I do own Mrs Angelino, her grandsons, and The Cash Register Girl At McDonald's, though. Um. Yay for me. 

**Spoilers**: Uh. ... ... yeah, no. 

**Warnings**: Dude, there's, like, slash! Male/male relationships! Dude! Also, this is totally AU. Yup. 

  


  


  


  


**Notes**: And it continues! I've been meaning to post this chapter for quite sometime, but because I am both lazy and forgetful, I, um, didn't. Sorry, to all four of you who read. That is: A great big thank you to **Olhado, SnowEyes, Edainme and Risty!** Mwah! *smooch* 

  


  


**Additional Notes**: KaZAAM! This fic is for **Olhado**, who rocks so much! There is also a sub-dedication somewhere in here. Ah, yes: This is also dedicated to **Lyo** and **Shindo**, because without them, there would be no Weasel/Forge. They both rule. Bow to them. Yeah, dude, that means you. 

  


  


**Additionaler Notes**: I forgot to mention this in chapter one, but um, well, "Simple Pages," the title of this fic, belongs to Weezer. It is a song. It is neat. Go listen to it. It will make you a happy Cheeto. 

  


Enjoy and Review!!!...please? 

  
  


  


-- 

  


  


  


  


  


Forge was generally very reserved and laidback. He didn't let things get under his skin unless they were Tremendously Terrible or he was in a particularly cranky mood--which happened very infrequently and, in the rare event that he _was_ in a cranky mood, resulted in him keeping to himself and not snapping at people. He believed in respecting and being nice or, at least, polite to all people. He believed in self-control and in the triumph of reason above all. 

Presently, he believed in not wearing jeans and maybe switching jobs. He was also thinking of getting a job, but that was an altogether different job, and it was something very dirty that Forge was also, presently, horrified with himself for thinking. And the reason for all this was the wide-eyed boy, who was slight of build and had a mop of dark for hair, sitting across from him--presently. 

Forge wondered if it would be imprudent to excuse himself and stay in the restroom for a disturbingly long time. 

"I don't understand it," Weasel said, looking somewhat mystified. "It wasn't _supposed_ to rain." 

He said it in the manner of someone who was particularly appalled that their beloved weatherman might betray them by not warning them about the exact place and position of every speck of rain cloud. 

Forge couldn't help but smile. "Thirty percent chance." 

"Thirty percent isn't even fifty-fifty," Weasel said almost vehemently. "God. I'm soaked." 

Forge cleared his throat and _really_ wished Weasel wouldn't remind him of things like being soaked and rain and anything wet at all. 

"Well, I am," Weasel said, practically pouting. He glared at Forge, then leaned over a little to the side and wringed out some of his hair, which was now mostly plastered to his scalp. Forge hid a smile at the sight. 

The past few months they'd been working together had proved to solidly cement the friendship that budded the first day they'd met. Unfortunately, the past few months had also moved Forge from the 'smitten' end of the continuum to 'infatuated' to 'ass over tea kettle in love or, at the very least, very, very much in like.' 

Weasel wasn't conventionally physically attractive to be sure; he was sinfully skinny, all sharp angles and achingly pale. However, Forge had pretty much been taken from the first moment he met Weasel, to the moment he had decided he was smitten, to the moment where he was infatuated, and onward. Part of the attraction, he figured, was that Weasel was very funny and very intelligent (a child prodigy, said most of the town; a very _normal_, _ordinary_ prodigy, thank you much, said a resigned Weasel) and very goddamned cute. 

Weasel was also very seventeen. 

"So, what do you want?" Weasel asked brightly, staring at the dollar menu perched above the cash registers. 

"What?" Forge said blankly, then added with a nervous laugh, "Oh--I don't know. I'm trying to eat healthier now." 

Weasel stared uncomprehendingly at him. "Healthier?" 

"Fritos and Pepsi don't do much for nutrition, apparently," Forge said, grinning. "Who knew?" 

"Not me," Weasel said, laughed, then leaned forward a little, his wet clothes squeaking on the pleather seat cover. 

"Give into the temptation, Forge," he said with what was undoubtedly supposed to be a goofy half-lidded look. Unfortunately for Forge, the look transcended goofy and went straight for sultry. 

Forge swallowed hard and sank down a little in his seat, chuckling weakly. He glanced down at his watch--half past midnight. Gloomily, he thought with wry amusement that Weasel was technically violating curfew. 

_One more thing to arrest me for if we don't get out of here soon_, he thought bleakly as he watched Weasel take his rain-speckled glasses off and wipe them as best as he could with a napkin. 

_Just one more thing_. 

And as fate would have it, of course, just as Forge was pondering the spectacularly miserable conditions of prison cells and what was no doubt spectacularly miserable prison food, Weasel was sneaking rather discreet glances at him through rain-peppered eyelashes. 

Without his glasses, Forge was just a blur of chocolate black and gray and Cheyenne tan ("My mother was pretty much immersed in the culture," said Forge at one point while fiddling with a radio transmitter, "but my father, of course, became a businessman."). He hoped that Forge wouldn't notice him looking; the thought of it sent heat around his ears and a sort of funny sinking feeling in his stomach that was either his esophagus dropping like a failed bottle rocket or something far more dangerous and unprofessional. 

Weasel carefully slid his glasses back on and watched the world click into focus. They were in a McDonald's, which was abandoned save for a bored-looking girl with sloppy brown ringlets. She was manning the cash register to the far left, chewing her lower lip and leaning indolently on the counter with both elbows. At this particularly dull moment of her life, she was in deep contemplation about a _Finding Nemo_ cardboard cutout that brightly advertised toys that would indubitably break the moment they came in contact with grubby toddler fingers. 

A lonely mop sat in the corner of the store near the closed playpen area, which was dark and cavernous and teethed with shadowed primary color angles. Weasel could make out some safety netting and a tubular slide, but that was all. A pair of pink flip-flops the color of heartbreak was still crammed in the shoe shelf, and Weasel found himself composing a small story in his head about a little girl named Shelley who was off to see her uncle in the hospital because he'd just been diagnosed with lung cancer, and she'd wanted to stop off for a McFlurry and her mom had thought maybe a romp in the ballpit might do her good, but instead Shelley just lost her favorite flip-flops and ended up having to wear a pair of Pocahontas boots that were too tight and pinched at her toes. 

Weasel winced and deliberately pulled himself out of his thoughts: sometimes he got carried away. 

"So," he said, "I think I'll just have some fries." 

Forge, who had been facing the other way and studying the glossy, dimly lit menu, turned around and looked slightly surprised. 

"Really?" Forge asked. "That's all?" 

"Yeah," Weasel said with conviction. "I'm wet and I'm miserable. No food." 

Weasel thought of it in terms of If A, Then B, and Forge grinned as if he'd heard it. 

"I'll probably just have some Pepsi or something," Forge said. 

"Very nutritious," Weasel teased as he stood up, his boots squeaking on the nut-brown linoleum floor. "You should at least get Hi-C." 

"I get enough vitamins," Forge protested. 

"Oh, really?" Weasel said, chuckling. He counted out some change, mouthing the numbers silently. 

"Fruit snacks," Forge said with a straight face. "Gummi bears. You know." 

"Ah, yes," Weasel said in his pseudo-intelligent voice. "They have their own block on the food pyramid." 

"The essentials," Forge agreed. 

Weasel laughed and walked up to order. Once he had his food--"That's not actually _food_, you know," said Forge mildly, which earned him a ketchup packet tossed at his head--he sat down again, carefully tucking one leg under the other. 

"Where do you think Lance and the others went?" Weasel said as he munched. 

"I don't know," Forge said. "I doubt there're any other Café Momus around here, so--you know." 

Weasel grinned. "Probably got distracted or something. Fry?" 

"No thanks," Forge said with a smile. 

"Hmm." Weasel popped the proffered fry into his mouth and tilted his head to the side. "They really don't strike me as café people, anyway." 

"They really aren't," Forge said, frowning a little. 

Weasel scrutinized the ketchup packets that he'd gotten and tried not think about how Forge looked very intense when he frowned just slightly; looked very serious and studious, in a way where perhaps he made Weasel's toes curl. He bit the inside of his cheek until he stopped thinking about Forge's mouth and the sharp jut of his clavicle and the way his long-sleeved shirts seemed to cling to his chest but hang down loose around his stomach whenever he sat, slightly hunched. 

_Oh, this is sad, Weasel_, he thought to himself. _Other kids like Wade are drooling over Sindy Mai at school, and you're over here with a schoolgirl crush on your coworker. _Illegally_, might we add_. 

Weasel smiled a little. He always referred to himself in the first-person plural when he thought; it amused him for reasons beyond just Data and said android's strange Borg Queen kinks. He never could figure out why. 

"Weren't you going to get a Coke or something?" Weasel said. 

"Oh, right," Forge slid out of his seat across from Weasel and searched his pockets. 

"Mm, a dollar something on debit card," Forge said with an almost rueful grin. "Bet they'll love me for this, hey?" 

"They're automatons anyway," Weasel said in a hushed voice. He darted a very deliberate look toward the bored cash register girl. She was now staring at her hand, which swirled with bic pen tattoos and gel pen memos. "I bet if I go up to her now, she won't remember who I am." 

Forge laughed--a startled laugh, Weasel thought dazedly; a very nice, not-too-loud laugh that was _comfortable_--and put one hand in his jeans pocket. 

"Be right back," said Forge. 

"Ten-four," said Weasel, who was busying himself with brushing salt off his fries. 

He glanced up as Forge's back turned and reminded himself that it was inappropriate to gawk at people's Certain Parts and how a Certain Person's jeans happened to slouch and around that Certain Part. It was also inappropriate to want to put his hand in that Certain Person's back pocket and just lean against that Certain Person's back and listen to him breathe. 

"This is bad," Weasel muttered to himself. He had scraped off the salt from most of his fries and had them on a small pile on a crinkly napkin on the table. He drew cornrows and whorls with his pinky in the salt, idly finishing off the rest of his fries. 

"What is?" asked Forge, and Weasel started, scattering the rather grim smiley face he'd been etching. 

"Nothing," Weasel said with wide eyes. Forge frowned a little--the same frown, Weasel noticed, from before; this time with just a bit more puzzlement--and put down a medium Coke. 

"Just talking to myself," Weasel said, watching Forge's hand. His fingertips were brushed with condensation and slightly pink from the cold. "I was just thinking about, you know, how we were supposed to meet Lance and Jubilee and Johnny and everyone and, you know, how they weren't there, and well, maybe I'm just really bad at taking messages or something, because I could've _sworn_ that they said 'Café Momus,' you know, but maybe they didn't; maybe they--" 

"Hey," Forge interrupted, looking startled. "It's okay. It's not your fault." 

Weasel stared at him, mouth slightly ajar, mid-babble. 

"I'm an idiot," Weasel said quietly. 

Forge frowned deeper and started: "What're you...?" 

He never got to finish his sentence, though. 

Weasel was leaning over the table, one hand propped on the napkin dispenser and the other on the table. His glasses bumped a little against Forge's forehead as they kissed, but then he rocked back and their lips were there, touching, and he closed his eyes as tight as he could. He was balanced precariously and in that moment, he could feel every bit of warmth and coolness: he could feel the tenuous cling of the seat cover to the wet fabric of his work pants, the clamminess of his palms, the bead of rainwater that had trickled from his still-damp hair, down the nape of his neck, and between his shoulder blades. That was cold. However: 

Forge was sitting back in his seat, one hand loosely around his drink, as if it hadn't been informed that the rest of the plane had up and left for somewhere else; the other hand was resting loosely on the back of Weasel's head, fingers furrowing the dark, thick hair. His shoulders were tense, as if part of him were panicking, but he was kissing back, all heat and wetness, very tentatively, not sure what he was doing or if he was doing the right thing. 

The expression in his eyes when they parted, though, was the expression of someone who had just experienced something that was so inexplicably right that that word ought to be capitalized and italicized and underlined several times. 

Weasel tipped his chin downward and studied his hand on the tabletop. It was pressed hard down: the knuckles and his fingers under his nails--paisley with chipped black lacquer--were white. 

"Sorry," Weasel said. He could taste Coke on his lips and a faint trace of spearmint. "I didn't mean to." 

Forge swallowed hard. He looked at Weasel's lips, slightly pink from their kissing. 

Their _kissing_. 

Weasel's mouth had been hot and cinnamon, and he had smelled a little of something citrus and indescribable. Unconsciously, he labeled that smell as the smell of caffeine; of that Jolt cola and Code Red that Weasel was so fond of; of something very livewire and very energetic and very, very addictive. 

"This is wrong," Forge told him, and before Weasel could recoil, he stood up and carefully slid Weasel's glasses off, put them in Weasel's hand--wrapped cold, clever fingers around them--and kissed him again: carefully this time. 

They looked at each other then: Weasel flushed, his eyes half-lidded; Forge licking his lips once over and cupping Weasel's face with one hand, an expression of near-awe on his face. After a moment, Weasel cleared his throat, pressed closer, and tried to say without laughing, 

"Someone's watching us." 

He said it very close to Forge's ear, and Forge was momentarily distracted before fully comprehending. Forge twisted around a little and saw the girl at the cash register--her nametag said 'Sue'--gaping at them with the most ridiculous look on her face. Her arms were leaned up against the cash register and the display read a very coherent, "238.49." He stifled a chuckle and turned back to Weasel, who was smiling tentatively at him. He grinned widely back. 

"So, um," said Weasel. 

"When do you have to get home?" Forge asked. He dropped his arms and watched Weasel carefully climb off the table and out of his chair. 

"My parents are actually out of town," Weasel said, grabbing his trash and tossing it out in a nearby waste bin. He then studied the toes of his boots, shoving hands into the pockets of still-wet jeans. 

Forge ran a hand through shaggy hair. "Well..." 

Weasel peered up at the ceiling, squinting at the sickly bright fluorescent lights. He turned around and rapped his knuckles on the table. "I wonder if it's still raining." 

Forge took a drink of his Coke and turned to look out the windows streaked with wet. "It looks like it's starting to clear up." 

"Oh," Weasel said. He looked at the soda machine, the crumb-dotted counter, the blocks of sickly green that was the wall, the too-shiny fake potted plant in the corner: everywhere but Forge. 

"Hey," said Forge after a moment. He punched in one of the starbursts on the lid of his cup; cola, not diet, not other. "Do you...do you want to come over? Just to hang out, you know." 

"Oh," Weasel repeated blankly and watched Forge check his watch. "Just to--yeah, sure." 

Forge caught his gaze and smiled uncertainly. "Hang out or--you know--whatever." 

Weasel felt himself flush a little, and he reminded himself sternly not to grin like an idiot, but he did anyway. "Sounds cool." 

Forge grinned back, a relieved grin that was wide and bright. 

They wandered outside into the cold, Forge with his keys in one hand and his soda in the other, Weasel with both hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched a little forward. The rain had stopped, but the asphalt of the parking lot was still dotted with wet puddles of dark that glowed with the reflections of streetlamps, passing headlights, the brightness of ripples rent by wind. It was very quiet and still. Weasel could hear the wet rustle of the dew-stained grass, lazy and lethargic. 

Forge pressed a button on his key ring and a battered black Saab beeped twice, its taillights flashing. It was a well-driven car that had seen far too many miles and drainage ditches to be sold. Dents and scratches marred and crisscrossed the doors and a long streak of mud striped the bottom of both sides. Inside was a different story; though: Entirely customized; surround sound, seat-warmers, six-slot CD-changer, bass support from the back and sides and under. A pair of fuzzy dice--classic white--adorned the rearview mirror with retro chic, and the seats were bare but comfortable. The car was a compact, so there was only room for two, but the back was spacey--and absolutely cluttered with junk: empty computer cases, cardboard boxes with bottles of water and soda, the lonely figurine of a Hawaiian girl with a cat by her feet, a grass skirt around her waist and pink-shells bikini top, the flash-stop orange of extension cords wound up like a nest, fuzzy blankets and striped pillowcases, and other assorted electronic and otherwise bizarre bric-a-brac. 

It was cozy. When Weasel'd first seen it, he'd commented that it seemed like Forge was ready to run from the law at any point in time, or cross state borders at the very least. 

Now, getting into the passenger side, Weasel wondered if Forge _would_ be willing to cross state borders: maybe go to Vegas or L.A. or somewhere warm and nice and fun. Just the two of them. 

_Two kisses later, and we're already thinking about eloping,_ Weasel thought with the ruefulness of an old soul trapped in a trigger-happy body. 

_Maybe not eloping_, he amended, watching Forge start the car, his fingers curled around the key. _Maybe just the honeymoon_. 

He felt his ears burn and he busied himself buckling his seatbelt. 

"I don't think I've ever been to your apartment," Weasel commented. 

"It's kind of small," Forge warned. 

"That's what they all say," Weasel said. "It's probably just snug or something." 

"No, there're boxes everywhere." Forge clicked his left turn signal and turned to smile briefly at Weasel. "I moved here a year or two ago and I still haven't fully unpacked." 

Weasel laughed. "Doesn't it get inconvenient?" 

"Nah." Forge shrugged loosely with one shoulder. His hand hovered over the stick shift. "I have everything clearly labeled." 

"I'd never be able to do that," Weasel said. "I'm too disorganized. Well--you know. I do that thing where everything's all messy but I know where everything is." 

"And then you put them in drawers and on shelves, and you find scissors when you're looking for your shoes," Forge said with a smile. "I've had that happen before. Usually when I've gotten all this junk and I don't know what to do with it." 

"Yeah," Weasel said, smoothing his black tee across the stomach and inspecting the backs of his hands. "You're usually pretty organized, though, hey?" 

"I guess so," Forge said. 

The rest of the ride was in silence. Weasel could feel his socks squish at the bottoms of his sneakers, and he desperately wished to get them off. He was beginning to lose feeling in the tips of his toes. He combed through his hair with his fingers and reached into the back of the car to grab his messenger bag. He checked his cellphone. There weren't any calls. 

Forge's apartment building was a tall brick structure that seemed ageless and formless. It melted into the shadows with only the occasional lit window. Most of the windows had their shades drawn, stern and gray. It suffocated the light. 

They pulled up into the parking lot and into the nearest parking space and Forge turned off the ignition. The car was still, and the warm air was thick from the heater that had been on and the smell of rain and wet clothes. Weasel chewed on his bottom lip and looked at his hands. They were in his lap, and they were pale and thin and bony. He hated his hands. 

"So," Forge said. He was studying the steering wheel. 

"So," Weasel agreed. 

Forge looked over at him, his brow creased in worry. "Are you sure you want to do this?" 

"Well," Weasel said. He was having trouble breathing. "We're--we're not going to do anything _much_, are we? I'm okay with--I mean..." 

"We won't do anything you don't want to do," Forge said sincerely. "I just--want to make sure that, you know, this isn't..._moving_ too fast for you." 

Weasel shifted a little, and he felt his pants sticking to the upholstery of the seat. He unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned forward so that his elbows were resting on his knees. 

"I don't think hanging out is moving too fast," said Weasel, looking down at the floor. His shoes seemed extraordinarily white in the gloom that one o'clock had pulled over the world like a film of gray. He smiled tentatively at Forge. 

"Right," Forge said, smiling back. "But--all this other stuff. I--" 

He stopped abruptly and looked back at the steering wheel. 

"Weasel," he said softly. "I really like you. I mean, this isn't just--just because I think you're attractive or anything. I mean, I _do_," he added hastily. "You _are_ attractive, but I--that's not all." 

"It's okay," Weasel said with a grin. "You don't have to pretend I'm the epitome of hot. I know I'm not alluring or anything." 

"What?" Forge looked startled. 

"That's besides the point, though," Weasel interrupted. His nails were sharp against the skin of his flesh. He relaxed his hands. He hadn't realized they were in fists. "I really like you, too. That's why--well." He lifted his hands, then let them drop again. 

Forge looked at him carefully, his eyes pausing at the juncture of Weasel's neck and jaw, Weasel's mouth, then fixing on Weasel's eyes. 

"I'd like a relationship," he said finally. "That is--with you." 

Weasel swallowed hard. 

"Do you?" Forge asked. His voice was very quiet. 

"Yeah," Weasel said, and he couldn't help but grin. "I do." 

Forge leaned over, delicately took off his glasses, and they kissed, fleetingly. Forge smiled warmly at him. Weasel hesitated, then unbuckled Forge's seatbelt for him, heard it retract with a soft _thwip_, and then they were kissing again. It was a heady feeling, and he could barely tell where his body was; it was just him and the heat against his mouth, the tightness that coiled up in the pit of his stomach, Forge's hair between his fingers, the thin material of Forge's sweatshirt that he fisted, warm from Forge's skin. Forge leaned closer, his lips cool against Weasel's ear, warm and soft and wet against Weasel's neck, and Weasel slid one of his arms around Forge's waist, flattening his hand against the small of Forge's back. Forge's head dipped back up and they kissed, harder now. Weasel twisted a little so that he could touch Forge's stomach with his fingertips--small nervous touches that made Forge sigh and lean against him more. 

Suddenly, someone rapped sharply on the window and Forge jerked back. Weasel fumbled with his glasses, which were wedged somewhere between his messenger bag and the stick shift. 

"This is the police," said a loud, harsh voice. "Come out with your hands up." 

"What th--?" Weasel said with bemusement. 

"Holy _shit_," Forge said, his eyes wide. 

There was the sound of laughing, then, and the passenger side door jolted open. Weasel nearly tumbled out, but was saved by the Incorrigible St John Allerdyce, who promptly popped his head in and shrieked, 

"You've been punk'd!" 

"You're such an asshole," Forge said, looking a little too pale. 

Johnny grinned and dragged Weasel out by the shoulders. 

"Johnny?" said Weasel. He was severely disoriented. Jubilee took the chance to feel him up. 

"Aww, did the big bad Forge try to molest you? Don't you _worry_, honey-sweetie-pie--I won't let the cradlerobber get ya," she cooed, cuddling up behind him and goosing him. 

"You're _all_ assholes," Forge exclaimed from the driver's side. He still looked rather shaken. 

"Umm," Weasel said, squirming a little. 

Johnny grinned and wriggled over into the passenger seat. He grabbed Weasel's messenger bag and rifled through it. "What, no overnight stuff?" 

Weasel turned pink. "Johnny--" 

"I need to talk to both of you," Forge said, his voice strained. "_Now_." 

Jubilee blinked, mid-grope, and changed directions to tousle Weasel's hair instead. Snapping the top closed, Johnny tossed Weasel his messenger bag and leaned back in the passenger seat: 

"Whaddya want?" 

"Weasel," Forge said, getting out of the driver's seat and bracing his arms on the top edge of the car, "wait over by the--please?" 

"Umm, sure," Weasel said with wide eyes. 

"It'll take just a minute," Jubilee promised with a grin wider than the Pacific Ocean. "Forge just wants to yell at us and tell us we're grounded." 

Weasel laughed nervously and nodded. "Okay, I'll--just--yes." 

Forge watched him walk toward the apartment building, glancing back at them every so often. He sighed and buried his face in his hands. 

"You set this up, didn't you?" he said into his palms, his voice muffled. 

"Duh," Jubilee said, rolling her eyes. "You were goin' nowhere fast." 

"Before you get all pissy," Johnny said brightly in the most horrific Italian accent ever heard outside pizza-making demonstrations, "just keep in mind that we did it for the sake of the family." 

Forge chuckled and raised his head. He was still a little pale from the 'police' scare, but he seemed to be returning to normal. 

"How does my dating Weasel help the 'family'?" he asked wryly. 

"_Dating_?" Jubilee squeaked. "You're already _dating_? John-John and I just thought you'd, y'know, bang 'im and get it out of your system." 

"_Jubilee_," Forge said, looking dismayed. He could feel his face heat up and silently thanked whatever Powers That Be for his somewhat dark complexion. He tried not to think about Weasel pressing against him, his fingers through his hair. _God_, those fingers... 

Johnny snickered and got out of the car, shutting the passenger side door loudly. He mimed a few punches at Forge from across the car and said, "Way t'go, Forge. At least you know you'll have a support structure when the po-_lice_ come to getcha!" 

"That's not funny," Forge muttered. "I nearly had a _heart attack_." 

"Yeah, dude, I know." Johnny stuffed his hands into the pockets of black gasoline pants and bounced on his toes. "That was _hilarious_. I swear." 

"You looked like you'd been caught with your jeans 'round your ankles," Jubilee agreed, giggling. 

"Christ," Forge said. 

"Anyway," Jubilee said, "_seriously_, Forge. Were you _ever_ going to make a move?" 

"Yeah," Forge said. "Maybe when he was, I don't know, _legal_?" 

"That's, like, next _July_," Jubilee said. 

Forge stared at her. "It's what?" 

"Ju-ly," Johnny said, obnoxiously drawing out each syllable. "Y'know? Firecrackers. Apple turnovers. You not getting' any. Sound familiar?" 

Forge pinched the bridge of his nose and tried not to feel woozy. "So, let me get this straight--" 

"Too late," Jubilee crowed, chortling. 

"--not only is he _underage_," Forge continued, ignoring her snarkiness, "but he's--" 

"Over _half a year_ underage, man," Johnny said. "Do you think you coulda lasted that long?" 

Forge thought about Weasel's hands and stifled a groan. "Um. Well." 

"It was a valiant try," Jubilee said, swooping over to his side of the car and draping an arm around his shoulders. "It really, really was." 

"Jubes and I were goin' _insane_ watching you two, though," Johnny said. 

"We really, really were," Jubilee said emphatically. 

"And Lance was ready to tie Weasel up naked or somethin' if it'd get you two to at least get over being repressed li'l mechanics," Johnny said. "Y'know?" 

Forge stared at him and tried to think of something to say. Unfortunately, the minute he'd heard "tie Weasel up naked," his brain had actually frozen and he was now waiting for it to defrost. Once it did, he said vaguely, "Umm." 

"Fuck, dude," Johnny said, shaking his head. "You're so into this guy, it's scary." 

"You really, really are," Jubilee said, stifling a giggle. 

"Well," Forge said. 

Johnny checked his watch. "Look, why don't you just go have fun rollin' in the hay or whatever else geekilicious shit you do together, hey?" 

Forge coughed and selectively decided to ignore the first part of the sentence. "Yeah, I think I will." 

Jubilee grinned. "You really, really will?" 

"Dude, do it from the hips, hey?" Johnny said, laughing. 

Forge glared at both of them and concentrated on feeling horribly violated. "I don't think anything like that's going to happen." 

"Whatever," said Johnny. 

"_So_ much sexual tension," Jubilee said. "So _much_." 

"I'll see you two at work, okay?" Forge muttered, shutting the driver's side door and locking the Saab. 

"Have fun," Jubilee said with an enormous grin. 

Forge opted to ignore that and shuffled toward his apartment building. He could see Weasel through the windows before he entered the lobby; he was leaning against the wall next to the mailboxes talking to one of the neighbors. 

"Forge," the neighbor said when Forge came into the lobby. 

"Hello, Mrs Angelino," said Forge. 

Mrs Angelino was a widow who lived in room 315, just two doors over from Forge. She was an old Hispanic lady of indeterminate age (Forge had never asked), and she had two nice grandchildren, one of whom was a nice accountant and the other, a nice transvestite hooker. Strangely enough, Mrs Angelino's favorite was the transvestite hooker: she claimed that he had 'pizzazz,' whatever that was supposed to mean. Also, apparently she didn't sleep. 

"I found this poor thing right outside the lobby doors," Mrs Angelino said, putting her hand on Weasel's elbow. "He looked like he'd been hit by a lumber truck." 

"Oh, I--sorry," Forge said anxiously. 

Weasel beamed at him. "It's okay. I'm fine. Mrs Angelino was just telling me about her grandson." 

"Allen?" Forge said. 

"Yes," said Mrs Angelino with a broad smile. "I'm having lunch with him tomorrow." 

Allen was the transvestite hooker. His street name was Ellen. 

"Oh, that's nice," Forge said. "How's he doing?" 

"Fine, fine," Mrs Angelino said. "He's thinking of learning photography." 

Forge nodded. "That sounds lucrative." 

"It's something to fall back on," Mrs Angelino said, then proudly: "My grandson is very beautiful." 

"I'm sure he is," Forge said, nodding. 

"Anyway," Mrs Angelino patted Weasel on the shoulder and smiled at Forge. "I have to go now." 

"It was nice meeting you," Weasel said. 

"You, too, dear," said Mrs Angelino. 

"Good night," Forge said. 

Mrs Angelino smiled even wider. As she passed him, she leaned close to whisper, "He's very cute. Keep this one." 

"Um," said Forge. He watched her disappear around the corner to the elevators. 

"You live in a nice building," Weasel said, looking around. His hands were in his pockets, his messenger bag slightly lopsided. "Wade's is way trashier than this." 

Wade Armstrong was Weasel's best friend of five years. Forge hadn't met him, but he'd heard all about the elusive Wade on a particularly slow day when they were hiding from Lance and the Odd Couple, who had somehow armed themselves with paintball guns. It'd resulted in Weasel and Forge locking themselves in a small, musty storeroom for a little over an hour, wherein Forge was regaled with tales of mild vandalism and the like--all the brainchildren of Wade. Weasel was convinced Wade was brilliant though also gifted with moments of stupidity and ADD. Forge thought that he rather hated Wade. 

It was very irrational to hate someone he'd never met, but he did. Or, at least, he really _disliked_ Wade. Wade was the one who had been in Weasel's gym class and seen Weasel change--maybe playfully snapped at him with a towel or a t-shirt. Wade was the one who'd gone wading with Weasel in freshwater lakes ("I had a emotionally-stunting incident in a lake when I was eight," Weasel had told him mournfully. "My cousin thought it'd be fun to hold me under for about a year. I never learned how to swim after that. But I got to buy ice cream and watch my cousin get yelled at."). Wade was the one who'd comforted Weasel after his pet iguana Stuart had died, the one who rode bicycles on hiking trails with Weasel in the summer, the one who introduced Weasel to horrible '80s metal bands and got him addicted to cult movies. 

It was difficult not to want to hate someone who'd had his name associated with Weasel's for most of his adolescent life. It was difficult not to want to hate someone who knew everything about Weasel--knew _more_ about Weasel than anyone else ever. It was difficult for Forge not to want to hate someone when that someone wasn't him. 

"You want to come up?" he asked. 

"I don't know," Weasel said, grinning. "The lobby has such glamour..." 

Forge laughed softly. "Well, I live on the third floor. Stairs or elevator?" 

"Are you a Progressive customer?" Weasel quipped. "Stairs are fine by me." 

They arrived at Forge's apartment a few moments later. Their hands had brushed briefly in the narrow stairwell, and Forge had wanted to hold Weasel's hand, but he was afraid that maybe Weasel might pull away. He wished he could give him a questionnaire: check yes if you like vanilla sundaes, if you like to take walks after the rain, if you like snow over sunshine, if you'd like to stay the night (you can have the bed; there's a couch with a pull-out). 

As promised, Forge's apartment was small, cozy, and absolutely cluttered with cardboard boxes of varying sizes. In the corner, there was a computer desk built entirely out of milk crates and covered with a tie-dyed sheet to keep things from falling into the crisscrossing holes. There was a threadbare couch opposite an awkwardly angled fireplace that seemed to slope downward on one side and defy gravity on the other. A coffee table scattered with a few coasters and several gizmo magazines for the wired and combustion-engine-inclined was before the fireplace, and next to that was a thin floor lamp, its shade hunter green and the stem a burnished, rusted gold. An armchair and a foldout table were the only other furniture in the main living room--unless the boxes were tallied in, of course. 

The kitchen proved no different; it was cramped and lined with cupboards. The floor was spread with smooth tiles the color of key lime pie yogurt, and the countertops were a sickly yellowish beige. There was an electric stove with a lonely pot sitting on top, a black microwave with a rotating glass table inside, and a white refrigerator complete with bulletin board. On the refrigerator were several magnets, a few letters from a poetry kit, and photos of a black and white spotted cat. 

"Is this Spoon?" asked Weasel, who peered at one picture framed in foam and stuck to the refrigerator with an apple magnet. In the picture, the cat was eyeing a bowl of food with the sort of suspicion the indicated she thought that the food might be poisoned or, at the very least, taste very, very bad. 

"Yeah," Forge said, grinning. He set his soda down on the counter and shed his jacket. 

"She's cute," Weasel said. "Where is she?" 

Folding his jacket over one arm, Forge peered out of the kitchen at the rest of the apartment. "Uh, I'm not sure. She's probably in the bedroom--I've got her bed set up over there." 

"Hmm," Weasel replied absently. He shuffled his feet and smiled nervously at Forge. "Your place isn't that bad. It's nice. I like it." 

Forge walked out of the kitchen and hung his jacket up on the coat rack by the door. "You like the mountains of boxes?" 

"I hear they're in style these days," Weasel joked, following him and looking around curiously. 

"Um," Forge ran a hand through his hair, "do you--want a towel or something? You're still kind of--" 

"Oh, sorry," Weasel said, startled. He pushed his glasses up farther on the bridge of his nose. "I'm not dripping all over the place, am I?" 

Forge chuckled. "No, I just--you look kind of uncomfortable, and, well..." 

"Waterlogged?" Weasel said wryly. "Yeah, I um. A little." 

"Anything I can get you?" Forge asked anxiously. 

"No, no, that's okay," Weasel said. "I--well, could I use your bathroom?" 

"Yeah, sure," Forge said. It's just on the left over there. There're some towels on the rack that you can use, too." 

Weasel grinned at him. "Okay, thanks. I'll be right back." 

"No hurry," Forge said, smiling back. 

The bathroom was about half the size of the kitchen and twice as crowded. There was a small oval sink with a small square mirror hovering over it that seemed to double as a medicine cabinet. A toilet was next to that, and then a bathtub-slash-shower that had a robin's egg blue plastic shower curtain around it. Opposite the toilet was a white plastic rack that sported several gray towels, some neatly hanging down in rectangles, and others folded. Weasel grinned at little at how orderly the bathroom was. He wondered if he'd drive Forge insane if he lived with him; his organizational skills were practically nonexistent. 

He closed the door and set his bag on the floor. He stretched a little, careful not to knock anything down, and rubbed his eyes, his knuckles jarring his glasses up onto his forehead with the motion. He shrugged out of his t-shirt, clutched it in a rumpled ball in one hand, and grabbed one of the hanging towels with the other. His skin was clammy from the rain ("Why is it that the minute you reach the restaurant," he'd said at the time, "the rain starts coming down? _Right_ when _I_ get out of the car, too." Forge had just smiled at him.) and he was shivering a little. He really hated going out in the rain. 

He inspected himself in the mirror after toweling down. There was a small, faint-brown scar between his second and third rib--he'd gotten it when Wade had been convinced he could teach him how to swim. Wade had tossed him into the lake, assuming that Weasel had known the basics, of course, and Weasel had nearly drowned and ended up bumping up against the little eight-foot pier's edge when Wade had pulled him up and out. He'd always scarred easily. 

Tracing the scar with one finger, Weasel grinned a little, remembering how Wade had nearly had an aneurysm after he'd nearly drowned. For his trouble (not breathing actually took a lot of effort), Wade had bought him his own copies of the _Birdland_ comics (1). After near-death experiences, he always seemed to get compensation. It made Weasel consider bungee jumping or rock-climbing, but somehow, he didn't think the Powers That Be would be much obliged in him trying to use coincidental profit as an excuse to rashly throw himself off things. 

His skin was too pale and his ribs stood out when he breathed. His shoulders were too narrow. The dark fabric of his Dickies work pants hung loosely on his hips and he tugged them up a little, trying to ignore how sharp his hipbones stood out. With his complexion, it was probably the stupidest idea to wear a lot of dark clothes and the black bands and bracelets and necklaces that he did, but he did anyway. He usually didn't care about appearances, didn't care what people thought, but now he shifted self-consciously: now appearances really could count. He studied his eyes in the mirror and hoped that Forge didn't mind how plain and how weird and how skinny he looked. 

He wrung out his t-shirt in the sink and rubbed the wet out of his hair as well as he could with the fluffy gray towel, then shrugged his t-shirt back on, holding the towel between his stomach and the sink rim. Afterward, he washed his hands (Dial soap; "I really hate it," Forge'd said, "but I can't think what other brand I ought to buy.") and shouldered his messenger bag. He opened the door, towel in hand, and walked out, pausing to peer out the window. 

"Hey, you've got a really nice view," he commented. 

"Thanks," he heard Forge say from over by the couch. There was a soft mewing sound and Weasel grinned. 

"What should I do with the towel?" he asked. 

"Just leave it in the bathroom--hang it on the doorknob or something." 

Weasel hung the towel up and wandered back out, rubbing the back of his neck, then shivering a little. His messenger bag bumped against his lower thigh with every step. He was halfway to the couch, when he halted, peered around the apartment, stared at Forge's foot--which stuck out over the back of the couch and was accompanied by the hindquarters and tail of a cat--and said slowly and carefully: 

"Where's your t.v.?" 

Weasel's voice suggested that it was possible that he was very close to having an aneurysm or an epileptic seizure, but was good-naturedly trying to suppress it. 

"Umm," Forge sat up, his hair ruffled. He'd been lying upside down, one leg hooked over the back of the couch and the other folded under. Spoon had been sitting on his stomach. She now licked her right paw, completely impervious to Weasel's presence. "I don't have one." 

Weasel gawked at him. 

"Okay," he said, his voice a little high. "I'm going to ask that again. Where's--your t.v.?" 

Forge tipped his head to the side. He carefully put Spoon on the floor before swinging around to sit the right way on the sofa. He stood up and turned around in a full circle, looking around his apartment. 

"Are you going to scream?" Forge asked very matter-of-factly. 

Weasel clamped his mouth shut tightly and hopped a few times in place, his baggy pants making a rather soggy rustling sound. He counted to ten in his head. He silently recited the alphabet backwards. When this didn't work, he recited it forwards. He thought about cows and sheep in bright green children's-show meadows. 

"You _don't_ have a _t.v._?" he said loudly. 

"Meow," said Spoon, who disapproved of Weasel's choice of enunciation. 

Forge coughed a little, looking somewhat amused. "Well, um, no." 

"Forge," said Weasel. 

"Weasel," said Forge. 

"How can you _not_ have a t.v.?" Weasel demanded. 

"I have a radio," Forge observed. "I can get the news and FM _and_ AM--" 

"A _t.v._, Forge," Weasel said. "You have a computer. You have--a radio. You have...boxes." 

"Yes, I do," Forge said. "Lots of them. In different shapes. Box-like shapes, that is." 

"But you don't have a _t.v._," Weasel said, undeterred. 

"Would you like to go buy one now?" Forge asked with a smile. 

"You're teasing me," Weasel accused, crossing over to where Forge was and jabbing him in the shoulder with his pointer finger. 

"Well, it's just a t.v., Weasel," Forge said. "It's not like I'm missing out on a--" 

"Whoa, _hold on_," Weasel said, his eyes gigantic and incredulous behind his glasses. "Not _missing out_ on anything? Hello? Have you heard of the _Sci Fi_ channel?" 

"It must have something to do with sci and fi," Forge guessed. 

"Yes, it does. Stargate," Weasel said. "Have you heard of _Stargate_?" 

"Umm," Forge said. "Is it an animal, vegetable or mineral?" 

"It's _brilliant_!" Weasel proclaimed, flinging one arm up in the air and narrowly missing Forge's nose. "Come on, we're going to my house _now_." 

"But we're already here," Forge said, hiding a grin. He'd only ever seen Weasel get this fired up when he'd found out that Forge didn't know who various underground bands were. He was very cute and very endearing where others might've been slightly terrifying--not to say that Weasel wasn't just a _little_ bit terrifying, that is. 

Weasel grabbed two fistfuls of his hair and seemed to scream inside his head for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and nudged his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, though they didn't need any nudging. 

"You have to promise me," he said sternly, "that you'll get a t.v. _Soon_." 

"Alright," Forge said. "But you have to tell me what to watch." 

Weasel brightened and grinned. "I'll bring over videos. And DVDs. You have to get a VCR or something. We'll have marathons." 

That sounded nice. Marathons. With Weasel. "Okay, sure," Forge said. 

"What do you spend your money on, anyway," Weasel grumbled, "if you don't have a t.v.?" 

"I have savings," Forge said rather placidly. 

Weasel shook his head. "I don't get it. You've known Lance and the guys for so long, and they haven't made you get a t.v.?" 

"They've tried," Forge said, smiling. "But I don't think they were as convincing as you are." 

Weasel opened his mouth, closed it, then turned a little pink. Forge grinned and relinquished to the irresistible urge to cuddle him by reaching over with one arm and pulling Weasel into a loose embrace. Weasel leaned against him awkwardly for a moment, then relaxed and hugged back with both arms, his messenger bag bumping against Forge's leg. 

"Sorry for, um, freaking out at you," Weasel mumbled into his shoulder. 

"It's okay," Forge said. "You were cute." 

Weasel pulled away and frowned. His hair was disheveled. "I'm not cute." 

Forge laughed. "Yeah, you are. You're very cute." 

"I think I liked it better when you thought I was 'attractive,'" Weasel said. 

Forge grinned and pulled Weasel close with the arm around Weasel's waist. It felt comfortable joking around with Weasel like this, holding him, feeling him lean against him. It felt natural. "C'mon. I want you to meet Spoon." 

Weasel stood on his tiptoes and peered over Forge's shoulder at the formless coffee-brown sofa. The curl of the tip of Spoon's tail was visible. Forge untangled himself from him slightly and pulled him over to the front of the couch by the hand. Spoon was calmly and unassumingly washing herself with a small pink tongue, and she only paused briefly when Forge came to a crouch in front of her. 

"Hey," Forge said, reaching out and scruffing the soft fur at the top of Spoon's head. He picked her up carefully with both hands. "This is Weasel." 

Spoon tilted her head to the side and stared unblinkingly at Weasel, who stared back. He could've sworn that she raised an eyebrow at him. He reached out a hand tentatively and Spoon eyed it with disinterest. 

"Um, hi, Spoon," Weasel said, not sure how he was supposed to behave. He usually didn't come in contact with animals. His mother had severe allergies and refused to let him keep any pets as a child on account of the possibility that her adenoids would actually explode. 

Spoon nuzzled his fingers, then craned her neck up at Forge, meowing plaintively. Forge chuckled and put her back down on the floor. 

"I don't think she's in a sociable mood tonight," he said. "But she seems to like you." 

Weasel dropped his bag on the floor and sank down onto the couch. He watched Spoon pad around the corner into the dark bedroom. "Er, I hope so. Since she's the competition and all, that is," he added, joking. 

Forge grinned and sat down next to him. Weasel shifted a little. 

"So," he said. "No t.v." 

Forge choked back a laugh and slouched down a little. "You're really fixated on this whole t.v. thing, aren't you?" 

"You don't suppose that it'd be a crime," Weasel said, "to break into Best Buy and get a t.v. if you leave money, do you?" 

"I think that if you use the words 'break' and 'in' consecutively in any context it's considered a crime," Forge said. 

"Hm," Weasel studied his hands then grinned at him. "So. You think we could make it through the night?" 

"Well, it's two thirty," said Forge. "Are you tired?" 

"Nah," Weasel said. "I go to bed way later usually." 

"So you say," Forge said. 

"Are you saying that you doubt my amazing nocturnal abilities?" Weasel asked, pretending to be offended. 

"I'd say that it'd depend on which nocturnal abilities you're talking about," Forge said before he could help himself. 

Weasel flushed a little, but retorted, "How can you disbelieve something you haven't witnessed?" 

"Obviously, you're exaggerating," Forge said. He was having trouble breathing. "Who, after all, can go for that long without--" 

He was going to say 'sleeping,' but instead, he somehow got lost in the dark brown of Weasel's eyes, and the way Weasel was worrying his lower lip with his teeth, and how his chin was sharp and pointed, and the way his t-shirt, damp and wrinkled, was clinging to his shoulders, and-- 

"Umm," Forge said. 

"I don't think that's what you were going to say," Weasel said uncertainly. He seemed very close all of a sudden. Their knees were touching, and one of Weasel's hands was against the back of the couch near Forge's shoulder. 

"No, I don't think so either," Forge said. He wanted to take off Weasel's glasses. He wanted to kiss him on the forehead and on the eyelids and on the mouth. He wanted to know everything about him. "Weasel--" 

There was the sound of a Toccata and Fugue, digitalized and mutilated, from the canvas depths of Weasel's messenger bag, and Weasel drew back reluctantly. 

"Sorry," he muttered, leaning down to open his bag and rifle through it for his cellphone. 

"It's okay," Forge said, watching the uneven, bumpy curve of Weasel's spine through the flimsy dark fabric of Weasel's t-shirt. 

"Hello?" said Weasel into the phone. He brightened. "Oh, hey, Wade. What's up?" 

Forge felt a little sick and he leaned back and away from Weasel a little, trying not to listen in on the one-sided conversation. 

"Mmgh, well," Weasel said, then paused, listening. "Nah, not on Friday. Wh--oh, shibby! I didn't know they were in town." 

Forge started counting the gray bricks that were inlaid in the fireplace. The white crevices of mortar were dark with age, though, and it was difficult to see. He started over twice before he heard Weasel say, 

"Well, um--I can't really talk right now, hey? I'm in the middle of something. Uh--no, I--" he laughed a little, "No, shut up. I'll tell you later. Asshole. Go to sleep." 

Forge watched him chew on the side of his thumbnail a little and hoped he wouldn't poison himself with his nail polish or anything. 

"I _really_ have to go," Weasel said into the phone. "And shut up. I have plenty of things I need to do at two in the morning." He laughed again. "Bye." 

Weasel pushed the 'end' button on his Motorola phone and looked apologetically over at Forge. "Sorry about that." 

"It's no problem," Forge said. "Wade?" 

"Yeah," Weasel grinned and shook his head. "He never sleeps." 

Forge's stomach dropped at the fond way Weasel said that. He wanted to ask how he knew that Wade never slept. He wanted to ask if they stayed up until four every night talking about the meaning of life, or about what they wanted to end up doing for the rest of their lives, or about the reason ducks quack and cows moo. He wanted to ask if Weasel ever got worked up and jumped up and down in place, demanding that Wade get a t.v. or look up who Bronski Beat was. 

"Well, you're one to talk," he said playfully instead. 

Weasel laughed and shoved him lightly. "What're you talking about? I sleep all the time." 

"Passing out after 72 straight hours of MUCKing isn't sleep," Forge said. He smiled at the sound of the word 'MUCK' and wondered if he would've ever heard of the term if it hadn't been for Weasel. He doubted it. 

"It is so," Weasel said. "Any time there's sensory deprivation and you aren't thinking about anything--that's sleep." 

"So watching a Mandy Moore movie in a badly furnished theater would be considered sleep?" Forge said. 

Weasel laughed and leaned his head on Forge's shoulder. "I guess so. What were you doing watching a Mandy Moore movie, anyway?" 

"I lost a bet," Forge said, wrapping one arm around Weasel's shoulders. 

"No, you didn't," Weasel said. "Was it Jubilee?" 

"Yeah. Jubes' cousin or someone was in town and she just _had_ to go to this art exhibit, so I took them to the movies." 

"You're so nice," said Weasel. 

Forge tentatively leaned his head against Weasel's and closed his eyes. He relaxed when Weasel didn't move away. "I'm just bad at saying 'no.'" 

"Did you ever get into drugs?" Weasel asked, sounding amused. "Because you sound like the poster child for one of those 'truth' commercials. You know--'I never _could_ say no!'" He said it in a high-pitched, melodramatic voice and Forge chuckled. 

"Well, you know, I tried pot and stuff." 

"I want to try some pot," Weasel said. He played with one of his jelly bracelets. "It can't hurt you. I think it'd be fun." 

"Yeah," Forge said. "Maybe one day when Antisthenes is the next big thing. We'll tour Canada or something." 

"I want to move to Canada," Weasel said. "Their t.v. channels are awful, though." 

"Better than nothing, though, right?" Forge said wryly. He was glad Weasel had his head on his shoulder and couldn't see his face; he was grinning like an idiot. 

"Hmph," Weasel said. "You'll see. I'll get you so hooked on Monty Python. Dude, and other movies, too--like Snatch. Ghost World kicks ass, too. Babylon 5, Stargate--the series's way better than the movie 'cause Richard Dean Anderson rocks--Voyager, and the _old_ Star Trek stuff; it's hilarious. You know what else? Yeah, this isn't on the Sci Fi channel and I feel a little weird for liking it, but _Buffy_--Joss Whedon is, like, God or something. Hey, you've heard of anime, right? I'm completely geeking out right now, but you gotta to see FLCL, it's so amazing, and I swear..." 

  


  


  


  


Four hours later, Weasel was curled up on the sofa, his head in Forge's lap, his eyes closed and his lips just a little apart. Forge was leaning back his eyes half-lidded. He stared at the floor for a moment, then looked back at Weasel. Weasel'd been asleep for just a few minutes. He figured that it was because, from what he could gather, Weasel had spent the last few nights playing Half-Life and living off of two hours of sleep and an insane amount of Jolt. 

Carefully, Forge stood up and padded to his bedroom, barefoot. He gathered up the dark-green paisley comforter from his bed and went back to the couch with it. He tucked it over and around Weasel and smoothed spiky dark hair down with his fingers. He smiled and sat down on the floor next to the couch. 

There was the sound of soft paws on carpet, and he looked up. 

"Hey, Spoon," he said, his voice subdued. 

Spoon slinked over and curled up in Forge's lap. She purred, and Forge stroked the soft black and white fur along her back. 

"Are you hungry?" he asked her absentmindedly. He could hear Weasel's breathing, quiet and even through his mouth, and he looked over at Weasel's glasses perched on Weasel's messenger bag, adorned with safety pins, sew-on patches and whiteout doodles. Spoon pawed at the it and Forge grinned. 

"Don't do that," he said gently, his fingers lingering in Spoon's fur. Spoon twisted around and nudged at his fingers with her nose. He pulled his hand away and watched Spoon walk a half circle around Weasel's bag and smiled when she turned her nose up at it and padded to the kitchen. He stood up and followed her; got out her bowl and filled it with water and food. 

"Okay, it's ready," Forge said. "Spoon?" 

Spoon was peeking out at the living room from the kitchen, staring at the couch. She turned and rubbed against Forge's leg before settling down to eat the proffered food. Forge watched her for a moment, then leaned against the doorjamb of the kitchen entrance. He could only see the comforter, but he smiled nonetheless. He wondered when Weasel would wake up. 

He heard Spoon's paws on the kitchen tiles, moving. He turned around and Spoon was staring at him inquisitively. 

"You know, Spoon," Forge said softly. "I really like him." 

Spoon just meowed in response.   


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


~tbc~ 

  


  


  


(1) A tribute to Poppy Z. Brite. If you haven't read her, go find her books now. She rules. 


End file.
